


When the River Doesn't Flow

by cicatrix (nematode)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mutilation, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 10:29:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19810411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nematode/pseuds/cicatrix
Summary: It's just her perfume,he tells himself. But it smells like crystal grace and freshly-chopped wood, and it's the same,oh gods it's exactly the same.The world twists, and the next thing he knows, he's on the ground, knees tucked up to his chest. When he shuts his eyes, he sees it, and it's like he's back there – vivid images ride on the back of the scent and every detail is perfectly etched out. He sees the dying leaves, the peeling bark, the faded leather – and he's too scared to move or else he'llfeelit too.It's never what he expects.---Lavellan is missing the tip of an ear, and no matter how much he refuses to talk about the horrors of whatever happened that day, it just keeps coming back to him.Note: this doesn't go into detailed descriptions, but does imply some pretty dark stuff. More warnings inside.





	When the River Doesn't Flow

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: it's ambiguous what actually happened in the past and not described in much detail, but there's some implied sexual assault and violence. Also, there's some in-depth descriptions of panic attacks, flashbacks, and body-horror-ish things. It gets pretty dark. Please read at your own discretion.
> 
> Also, my cold-hearted girlfriend teared up after reading this, so there's that.

Lavellan enjoys sitting with the Chargers because his presence doesn't matter there. Krem doesn't stop telling his grand stories, Skinner doesn't stop polishing her knives, and Grim doesn't suddenly start speaking to impress him.

Instead, when he walks to their table after a long day hunched over the war table, he just gets a few glasses raised in greeting, and Bull slides over to open a spot for Lavellan between him and the wall. With Bull's form hiding him from the rest of the tavern's prying eyes, he's allowed to just sit, listen, and laugh along with the rest of them.

And tonight, all he really wants is to not be the most important person in the room. It's a brief moment where every word, every movement, every minuscule expression he makes isn't torn apart as some political statement or propped up as a new tenet for a religion he doesn't even believe in.

“ – And _that's_ how Sir Maxwell learned not to leave his chimney open!” Krem bellows, earning a round of cheers and laughs.

Lavellan raises his drink with them, not high enough to be seen over Bull's head, but with enough fervor that it splashes back onto his forehead. When he manages to stop spluttering out shocked curses, he hears Bull chuckling next to him.

“Here, Boss, I've got you.” Bull reaches over the steadily-increasing field of empty glasses for a cloth to pass Lavellan. Lavellan nods in gratitude and raises it to wipe down his face, only to realize that the cloth is already wet with ale. The two of them burst out laughing as Lavellan pulls the cloth away and reveals his face has been left even more of a damp mess.

“ – _knife-ear_ leading us. Is it any wonder we can't get either country to take us seriously?”

Somehow, even through the buzz of rowdy voices of the tavern, that word always cuts through it all like an arrow perfectly shot into his head.

He can tell the Chargers noticed too. The rowdy cheers go silent all at once like a candle snuffed. Skinner goes from polishing her knife to checking its edge, and Lavellan becomes keenly aware that half the table is shooting glares at the man's table, and the other half is staring straight at him.

He rolls his eyes and places his hands on the edge of the table, attempting to push himself up to stand even as the number of drinks in his system weighs him down.

Maybe he's used to it. It doesn't bother him nearly as much as it did back in Haven, back before he had a title and a stronghold behind him. But for the sake of the other elves in the room, he can't just stay quiet.

He already knows what to say. He'll tell them if they've got a problem with the leadership around here, or any of the other elves for that matter, they can pack their bags and go back to whatever hole they climbed out of. He knows the Inquisition finds its strength in numbers, but he'd rather lose a few soldiers than let their poison spread through the ranks.

“Yeah, but looks like the knife's been dulled, at least,” another voice says across the room.

The two men laugh. Lavellan suddenly can't move.

Lavellan still sees his hands in front of him, holding his weight against the table, but they may as well belong to someone else, far from wherever he's ended up.

It feels like the moment before he closes a rift, when the Fade seems to open up and prepare to swallow him whole. He braces himself for his vision to spin, for his legs to give out from under him, for his stomach to empty itself.

But none of that happens. Everything is still, and even though he feels like a spectator watching his body collapse in on itself, nothing around him has changed. He needs to move, _he needs to run_ , but how can he when this body can't possibly be his own?

He can tell that there are ears ringing, like they've been held underwater until the pressure threatens them to burst. He sees hands, shaking as they turn white around the edges of the table, but they don't listen when he screams at them to move. And overwhelming all other senses, there's a heart beating so fast he can't tell one pulse from another.

“Give me a second, Boss.” Bull voice sounds like it's coming from a memory Lavellan is reliving.

There's a new hand now, in between the ones digging into the table, palm turned up. Lavellan manages to trace the arm up with his eyes and sees Krem's face, offering him a closed smile even as his eyes are hardened with anger and concern.

Krem's fingers very carefully don't brush his own. Lavellan doesn't know if he could handle seeing anyone touching him when he can't control his own flesh and the muscles in his throat can't seem to remember how to make words.

“Not sure if you want to look, but the Chief just said something to them, and... oh, yep, they've run out with their tails between their legs.” Krem shakes his head, but Lavellan can see pride in the tilt of his chin. “Safe to say we won't be seeing them around anymore.”

Lavellan repeats the words in his head over and over again until they don't sound real, but he still can't pull any meaning from it. Krem may as well have been speaking Tevene. Lavellan can't tell whether it was seconds or minutes, but eventually Krem's small smile widens and while it definitely looks forced, it helps Lavellan realize – this is good. Bull took care of it.

The world isn't ending, at least not yet.

“Do you want to hear about the time Chief accidentally caused a nug infestation in Val Royeaux?” Krem asks, wiggling his fingers and offering a kindness in his smile that fights off the shame building in Lavellan's stomach.

Lavellan can't meet Krem's eyes, but he manages to nod.

Krem starts talking and even though Lavellan can't follow the story, he clings to the sound of each word and the ringing in his ears starts to fade. His heart no longer hurts like it's got a rift stuck in it. He still can't figure out how to sit, but he trusts he'll fall back down eventually.

* * *

“Now, perhaps I should be the last one to speak on this subject,” Dorian starts, and Lavellan can tell even without looking up from wiping flesh off his knife that he's about to be playfully flayed over a proverbial fire. “But you make some surprisingly unpractical fashion choices.”

Lavellan rolls his eyes, but still smirks. “Well, you're at least correct that I never expected to hear that from _you_.”

Dorian shrugs as his lips twitch up. It almost looks like his mustache shrugs with him. “I wear my hypocrisy with pride.”

“Alright. What crime against fashion have I committed today?” Lavellan gestures down at his armor, freshly stitched together from deepstalker hide but already stained with the usual blood and dirt.

“Your _hair_. Have you ever looked in a mirror?” Dorian holds his hands hovering inches from either side of his head. Lavellan can't help but roll his eyes – it's not _that_ wild. Shaving the sides and keeping a couple braids here and there definitely helps tame it though. “All I am saying, is that you'd have a much simpler time if you wore it up. Easier to dodge a fireball if you can see it coming.”

The words push Lavellan's cheer off a cliff. This is not a conversation he wants to have. Dozens of familiar excuses run through his head, none of them good enough to fool Dorian. Lavellan feels sure of it – Dorian's going to see through anything he says, he's going to have to tell –

He breathes like his Keeper practiced with him, counting up as he inhales and concentrating on the cool air leaving his nostrils in hopes that it could quench the frantic burn spreading through his blood.

He focuses so hard on his breath that he nearly doesn't flinch away in time when Dorian reaches for the hair on his right side. Dorian pulls his hands back, chuckling at what must have looked like stubbornness. Lavellan clenches his fingers – if Dorian tries that again, he doesn't know if he'll be able to keep from slapping his nosey hands out of his face.

“I mean, your hair is lovely, when you bother to comb it.” Dorian's scrutiny looks casual but feels like needles on the skin. Lavellan wants to keep his hands still, but he can't help but reach up and smooth his hair back into place. It's become a bit of an unconscious habit to sweep it over the top of his head to keep it in a mass on the right.

“But everyone else wears it short for practical reasons, you know. I'm sure Blackwall would love to have long, flowing locks too.” Dorian raises his eyebrows, inviting Lavellan to picture that sight with him. “Once this is all over.”

“Varric's is long,” Lavellan protests.

“Do you really consider that long? And either way, he wears it up in that little ponytail!”

Lavellan doesn't understand why this is suddenly such an important issue. He's got it taken care of, and maybe he needs to watch his back a little closer, but that's _his_ problem. He's been hunting for years and no one else has ever brought it up, so why can't Dorian just _drop it_?

“I know that trying to get fashion advice into your head is like throwing fruit at a wall, so take this as battle advice then. You don't want someone sneaking up on you just because your hair gets caught in your face.”

“Well, if it ever gets in the way, I'll let you take a knife to it, okay?”

It's meant to be a joke. It's meant to make Dorian just laugh and walk away, shaking his head at Lavellan and dropping some final quip about his hopelessness.

But Dorian looks taken aback, like he's just taken a dagger to the gut. Lavellan hears his own voice replay through his head, the sound harsh and ragged, and they might as well have been final mocking words said to an enemy just before striking from behind. It's not what he meant. Dorian's his friend and he's not meant to look at him like this, lips drawn thin and eyes gone flat.

“Alright, well. I understand. Do whatever you'd like. I'll leave you be.”

Dorian turns his back and walks away. Lavellan tries to drown out everything but his breathing again, but it's like he's been left to freeze in a blizzard of his own making.

Lavellan gasps at the sudden weight of a hand on his shoulder. He tries not to let the shock show on his face as stares up at Bull, who smiles down at him as he rubs slow circles over Lavellan's collarbone with his thumb.

“For what it's worth, I think it would look good up in a bun, Boss,” Bull says. “You've got the bone structure for it.”

* * *

By the fifth time, the sex is no longer a frenzy of shoving limbs and desperate energy, born out of fear that each time will be the last. Lavellan is now fairly confident he's going to keep finding the door to Bull's quarters open for him.

More importantly, Lavellan finally drops the last bits of the mask he wears in front of, well, everybody. He stops biting his lip, stops spending so much focus on steeling his expression, and he just lets himself _want_. He wants to give, he wants to be taken, and most of all he _wants_ Bull and he's finally accepting that it's not a weakness to give in to that.

And today, Bull is taking the time to explore exactly what Lavellan will give. He keeps one hand greedily tangled in Lavellan's hair, pulling just enough to hurt, the other wrapped tight around Lavellan's wrist, pushing it into the wall. Bull draws lines across his neck with his tongue and teeth, keeping the pace slow and lavish.

“Just wanna see what noises I can get out of you,” Bull had said before pinning him against the stone, one knee jammed between his legs.

Lavellan is full of shivers and knows he'll need his scarf tomorrow, regardless of the weather.

With light kisses that just make Lavellan laugh, Bull moves up his jaw and traces his vallaslin up and over his cheekbone, until he hits the sensitive skin right below the ear on the left side of Lavellan's head.

Bull pauses, allowing Lavellan time to react. There's a brief moment where he thinks of shaking his head and telling Bull to move along, as he's got some other bits lower down that could definitely use the attention. But he wraps a hand around Bull's horn and squeezes it instead, and with a further tilt of his head, he extends an invitation.

“Oh,” Lavellan gasps when Bull tugs at his lobe with his teeth. He shudders and squirms as Bull's tongue makes its way up the cartilage, and he can't help the buck in his hips when Bull wraps his mouth around the tip and _sucks_.

It's good – it's so damn good Lavellan feels a little off balance, and alright, he's really desperate to go ahead and get fucked into the mattress already.

Bull pulls back and Lavellan thinks he's about to finally get his wish, but then a gray eye meets and holds his gaze, and Bull moves his hand under the hair of Lavellan's right side, pressed firm and still against the crown of his head.

Lavellan's heart beats light and fast like halla footfalls. Bull doesn't move – he just gazes into Lavellan's eyes with a fondness Lavellan hasn't seen anyone give him since leaving his clan.

Bull's never brought it up, so Lavellan's never needed to lie about it. He suspects Bull has his own ideas about what happened, just like all the other elves around Skyhold who see but never ask.

“Okay,” he whispers.

Fingers gently sweep Lavellan's hair up and over the other side of his head. Lavellan can't help but shut his eyes as he feels hot breath on the side of his cheek, and then light pinching teeth on his ear.

The shape of _katoh_ forms in his mouth, and he can feel the sound poised in his throat, waiting for a chance to jump. He's not afraid of Bull – he's afraid he's going to need to say it. He can't stand the thought of dealing with the inevitable fallout, and Bull always says _no questions asked_ but this has been _fun_ and he doesn't want to ruin it with his stupid, silly hangups.

Nothing happens. Lavellan's heart still pounds in his chest, but he doesn't freeze. He's still here, in Bull's arms, and when he steps out of the fog in his head, he realizes – the teeth tugging at his ear are there and they make him feel _good_. He's surprised. He's excited and fuck it, he wants _more_.

He unravels the _katoh_ in his throat and lets himself moan.

“Do you need a minute?” Bull mutters in that ear. Lavellan blinks his eyes open just as he feels a squeeze around his wrist – he should have realized Bull had a hand on his pulse the whole time. No wonder he could always tell when to slow things down or speed up at just the right times to keep Lavellan on edge.

“No,” Lavellan says. “I really, really need you to keep going.”

He feels Bull's approving hum against his ear right before Bull sucks the edge of it and his legs nearly give out.

* * *

Sunlight reflects off the ornate silver metalwork of the amulet. Vivienne holds it up at eye-level with one hand and uses two fingers of the other to trace the edge of it.

“It's enchanted to protect from flame,” she finally says, tapping a finger against the blue gemstone. Her expression remains neutral even as she shifts her eyes to the side to look at Lavellan. “You may want to hold on to it. You always somehow find a way to be in the direct line of fire, quite literally.”

“Thanks, Vivienne,” Lavellan says, having learned by now that simple pleases and thank yous are the best way to deal with her scathing comments. He can never tell if she thinks of him as just a pathetic kitten or as a puppet with easily-pulled strings. “I will.”

Vivienne hadn't been the one to actually pluck the amulet off the corpse, of course. Lavellan had seen the peek of the chain around the Venatori's neck just before slitting his throat, and experience had proven that Tevinter had a real knack for particularly convenient magical trinkets. But Dorian and Vivienne had insisted that since _he_ was the one to make that mess, he needed to be the one to retrieve it and wash off the blood.

In the end he'd brought it over to Vivienne, not because he thought Dorian couldn't check for enchantments, but because he didn't think he could deal with Vivienne's inevitable back-handed comments about Dorian's clear “expertise” later.

“Perhaps you'll manage to avoid dying in a burst a flame until _after_ saving the world,” Vivienne says with a smirk. Pathetic kitten it is, Lavellan decides.

Vivienne holds the amulet out in the palm of her hand, and Lavellan grabs it just as a breeze blows the dangling chain in his direction.

The wind carries a scent up to his nose. He drops the amulet.

_It's just her perfume_ , he tells himself. But it smells like crystal grace and freshly-chopped wood, and it's the same _, oh gods it's exactly the same_.

The world twists, and the next thing he knows, he's on the ground, knees tucked up to his chest. When he shuts his eyes, he _sees_ it, and it's like he's back there – vivid images ride on the back of the scent and every detail is perfectly etched out. He sees the dying leaves, the peeling bark, the faded leather – and he's too scared to move or else he'll _feel_ it too.

It's never what he expects.

“Oh, Maker's breath – was it _cursed_ or something?” That's Dorian, and that's good, Dorian wasn't there, Dorian is real, but he's still too powerless to open his eyes.

“Do you truly think I wouldn't be able to detect a curse?” Vivienne says, and Lavellan hears even her dignified voice has a quiver of – worry? Fear?

He can't do this in front of them. They need to believe the lie that he's strong enough, that he can do something besides just curl into himself and pray that this ends soon –

“It's me, Kadan,” he hears to his side. “You're alright. Breathe. Come on, just one breath.”

Lavellan hadn't realized the burn in his chest was from a lack of air. He can trust Bull. Bull believes the lie so much that Lavellan nearly falls for it himself sometimes, and even though everything hurts, Bull wouldn't hurt him. With eyes crushed shut, he unclenches his jaw and forces his mouth open to gasp in a shuddery breath.

He gets another whiff of the smell and he's _there_ – _he needs to scream but there's a hand pressed against his mouth and all he can do is wait and smell that hand until it's –_

“You can't breathe like that, Kadan,” Bull says, before he feels fingers pull his hand away from his face – he hadn't even realized he'd moved it there. Lavellan immediately replaces the hand to cover his nose, leaving his mouth uncovered but his nose squeezed tight. “Open your eyes. Look where you are.”

Lavellan does. He sees Bull crouched next to him in his peripherals, Dorian kneeling to his other side, hands glowing bright with the beginnings of healing magic, and Vivienne standing above him, staring down at what must have been a pitiful sight.

She tilts her head, and Lavellan can see it's not quite eye-contact – she's looking at his hand, gripping his nose like he could tear it off. Expression still cool if not a little inquisitive, she raises her wrist to her face and takes a quick sniff of her own skin.

And suddenly, her face softens. Lavellan sees the tension leave her brow, and when she bends down to face him, she has a small smile but a sadness to her eyes that he's never seen in her.

“I'll go wash it off, alright?”

He nods, and she turns away, walking with purpose back in the direction of camp. He looks down at the sound of rustling to see Bull digging through Lavellan's pouch, but his throat is still held too tight by fear for him to ask what he's looking for.

And then Bull pulls something out and it's – _elfroot_. Lavellan's favorite, the one he crushes and strains into oils for his hair, for adding a scent to his bathwater that brings him back home, if just for a few minutes. Bull folds the sprig between his fingers and then holds it under Lavellan's nose.

“Breathe,” Bull commands, as his steady fingers wrap around Lavellan's own shaking ones.

Lavellan does.

* * *

Lavellan sits back against a tree, idly polishing his knives while his friends loot the carriage of the freshly dead bandits. He's perfectly happy for a chance to rest his legs on the long road to the Western Approach, and Bull, Varric, and Sera get much more fun out of rooting around for treasures than he would.

Sera and Lavellan had been waiting with their own wagon of supplies off to the side of the road, while Bull and Varric stepped off into the woods for relief. These bandits had seen two elves, a full wagon, and, well... the bad news for them was that those two elves are fairly lethal at close range. Varric and Bull had come back to three dead men and two blood-soaked elves shrugging, like they'd been caught stealing from the kitchens.

“Damn, these're some nice-ass arrows. Where'd they even get these?” Sera asks, scrunching up her face as she holds a black arrow between her eyes.

“Probably stolen from some other less-prepared travelers, Buttercup.”

“Oh, right.”

Bull looks over his shoulder at where Lavellan sits. “Hey, Boss, they've got a couple knives here. Wanna look 'em over?”

“Sure, Bull. Thanks.” The two of them share a smile, and Lavellan takes a moment to admire the way the bright sun highlights the mingling gray hues of Bull's horns. He sinks down further against the tree, listens to his friends make fun of some gemstone-encrusted shoes, and enjoys the shade under the sluggish dance of the leaves.

“And what is _this_?” He sees Varric pull out a wooden box, probably about as long as his forearm and equally as wide, though only about as tall as his hand. It looks well-polished if not a bit plain, so pretty promising for jewelry. Varric makes quick work of the lock, unlatches it, and lifts the lid open.

“Oh, _shit_.” Varric's face pales before he's even done cursing. His eyes go wide and Lavellan sees the box nearly slip out of Varric's hands before he tightens his grip.

Sera and Bull both share a look and then crowd behind Varric, peering down into the box. A look of confusion, then disgust spreads over Sera's face. This isn't disgust like when Solas rambles too long about the lost glory of the elves – this is nearly horror.

“Maker's fucking – “ Sera bends away, hand covering her mouth as she gags. “What the _hell_.”

Lavellan stands and starts striding forward, knives left by the tree. It's Bull's familiar expression that pulls him over – he's unreadable, face like a blank fog that Lavellan knows by now is hiding a storm underneath.

“What is it?” Lavellan asks just before reaching the group.

“Kadan, wait – “

The demand in Bull's voice doesn't stop Lavellan from looking down. For a second, Lavellan is sure his face shows the pure, burning terror that's turning his bones to ash, but then he goes completely blank too. He clenches his jaw until it hurts, and forces his eyebrows into flat lines.

He has to.

The box is a specially made display case – holding a collection of small jars of liquid, fastened with care into the purple velvet backing. They're laid on their side so that the contents can be viewed without needing to pull them out. There's eight of them, total.

Inside each jar is the severed end of an elven ear.

Lavellan holds out his hands, well-aware of the eyes fixated on him. Varric hesitates, but then hastily passes off the box, eager to rid his hands of the thing.

Lavellan shuts the lid, each movement precise and slow. He holds it in both hands as he walks over to one of the men's corpses, the oldest one, the one that started the attack.

He's got a graying beard, skin that's started to spot and wrinkle after years in the sun. Broad shoulders. Long hands.

Lavellan stares at his throat, slit cleanly with one easy stroke. It was quick, probably over before the sensation even reached his brain. Fast. Painless.

“This is not the death you deserved,” he says, with the volume of a whisper and the weight of a decree.

He tucks the box under his arm, so heavy he can barely lift it, and walks into the woods.

* * *

Lavellan comes back to a campfire and silence. It's a particular type of silence – the sort that follows a conversation that has suddenly been cut off and left to hang in the air.

He sits and stares in the fire, with the same blank, vaguely-irritated face he keeps when holding judgment for a particularly pathetic case. Even his casually crossed legs and the way he rests his chin on his open palm mirrors his usual stance when he's made to take that throne.

No one says anything. Everyone sits on their own log, freshly cut by the looks of it, and waits. Bull keeps his eye on him, looking at Lavellan like he's a foreign ship crossing the distant horizon. But he doesn't look like he's got anything to say, at least not here and not now. Sera, on the other hand, practically bites through her lip to avoid the words that are making her rapidly fidget.

Since when has Sera ever filtered a thought that came through her head? Lavellan has always liked that about her – maybe she thinks he's too caught up in the old ways, but at least she doesn't hide it. It occurs to him that the others must have told her to hold back, which would certainly dishearten him if he was open to any emotions at all. He doesn't want to talk, not really, but it's unsettling to be around a fire and not hear Sera's chatter.

The sooner things go back to normal, the better.

“How're you doing, Inky?” Varric is the one to finally speak up. Admirable. “Tiny's nearly torn down half the forest at this point.”

Lavellan isn't surprised Bull's got pent up energy. _Glad_ isn't quite something he's ready to feel yet, but it's good to know Bull found an outlet.

He doesn't know how long it was before Bull had come to him, but he remembers the trees were bathed in an orange glow when Bull found him sitting alone and cross-legged in the most secluded bit of the woods he could make it to. Head down and box in his lap, he hadn't reacted when he'd heard Bull's heavy footfalls come to a stop behind him.

“ _Hey, Kadan. You dropped your knives back there, so... here. Figured you'd be pissed if they got stolen. And if you're – well, I've got my flask too, if you want.”_

Bull never stepped around in front of him. Lavellan wondered if that was to give him space or if Bull was avoiding what he'd see if he did.

“ _Ah. Fuck. Listen. I don't know what you need – but if you want me to stay – “_

Hidden behind a curtain of hair, Lavellan had just shaken his head and waved Bull off with a vague hand gesture.

“ _Alright. I love you, Kadan. Anything you need – I'm here.”_

He won't ever forget the feeling of Bull standing at his back, with no more words and no more touch to give, only a foot apart but feeling like the Veil had fallen between them. And then Bull had turned and left, leaving Lavellan's things behind.

“I'm fine,” Lavellan says, as he sets the box on his lap. Everyone holds their breath and stares like it's a demon waiting for them to take their eyes away before striking.

With no ceremony or warning, he tosses the box into the fire.

The flames jump and crackle with a renewed energy that nearly drowns out Varric and Sera's gasps.

“Was it – were you... you know, was one of them – “ Sera blurts out, and Bull sighs, but Lavellan can't blame her for speaking up. He never expected anything less.

He shakes his head. “I don't think so,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders. “But we'll probably never know.”

He shuts his eyes and leans back, voice dropping to an even whisper as he feels the weight of their attention. “Did you know you can't tell the difference between ears when they've been rotting away for nearly fifteen years?”

For a minute, there's no noise beyond the hiss of the fire and the cries of insects waking up to the start of the night.

“Let 'em burn,” Varric says.

* * *

Bull's breath is a slow, deep cycle – when he breathes in, Lavellan feels his chest expand against his back, and then when he exhales, Lavellan feels hot breath blow through the hair on top of his head. It's peaceful, predictable, and it's something to focus on outside of himself.

Lavellan leans back against Bull's chest, shuts his eyes, and tries to let the steady rhythm of Bull's heart and lungs lull him to sleep. Bull has his back pressed to a tree, but he doesn't lean his weight on it, instead curling forward until he practically engulfs Lavellan's form.

He'd been lying in his tent and staring straight ahead, asking the gods to grant him the strength to do something other than wait just for the sleep that he knew wouldn't come. The Creators didn't do that, but they did bring him Bull.

Bull had peeked in, asking if needed anything, and Lavellan was about to say _no_ before he actually looked up at Bull – and even though Bull wasn't going to ask a single thing of him, Lavellan had seen something else in the tense furrow of his brow and how his hands kept twitching up towards him. So he'd asked Bull to come with him to look out at the stars, as they so often did these days when there just wasn't enough energy left in them to do anything else.

And with how quickly Bull had wrapped his arms tight around him after they'd sat, and how deeply he'd buried his face in his hair, Lavellan knew he'd been right. Bull needed this. Lavellan doesn't feel much like reaching inside himself enough to figure out what he needs, but he can at least give Bull something.

“Do you want to know how I would have killed him?” Bull asks.

“Yes.” Lavellan opens his eyes and looks down at Bull's arms that wrap around his waist so easily. “Let me guess. Skull ripped out through his ears?”

“I would have forced him to cut his own dick off.”

“Well. That is new.” Lavellan chooses not to picture it, staying in the comfortable warmth of the moment instead. “And if he didn't?”

“Oh, he would. Even if he needed a helping hand.”

Lavellan snorts. He feels the muscles in Bull's hands and shoulders relax at the sound, though he doesn't unravel himself from Lavellan at all. Under the large expanse of stars and inside Bull's never-ending warmth, Lavellan feels small and insignificant. And that's the greatest comfort he could ask for.

As he closes his eyes and rests his hands over Bull's, everything he'd cast aside before begins to find its way back to him – his fears, his desires, his sense of time, and all those emotions that claw at his stomach and curdle his blood.

He can't hide anymore.

So he reaches into the folds of his jacket, in the pocket over his chest where he keeps a healing potion for emergencies, and pulls out a bottle. The sound of liquid shifting against glass is all he hears, Bull's breathing suddenly cut short. He clutches it in both hands, then unfolds his fingers to show a preserved but shriveling tip of an ear.

There's a small, silver ring pierced through the edge of it.

_The First had used an ice spell to numb the skin, and he'd shown it to the entire clan before the bleeding had even stopped. Years later, she'd come to him with needles and an offer to do it all over again, but he knew it would never be the same._

“Shit,” Bull says.

The liquid splashes around as a tremor roots itself in his fingers, which spreads up his arms to his chest, and before long every muscle in his body begins to shake. He stops trying to control it. It feels like someone's got him caught in a jar that they just won't stop rattling, and trying to escape just makes it worse.

He lets go of the cry that's been stuck in his chest for who knows how long, a howling wail that echoes through the woods. And then it doesn't stop – tears flow down his face just as quickly as his shuddering head shakes them off.

Bull holds him tight even as his body convulses with sobs, his arms squeezing around Lavellan's waist and his chin kept tucked firmly over his head. “It's alright,” Bull whispers in his ear. “I've got you.”

Bull keeps whispering soft words to him, and he can't understand them, but they're there and they're real, even as the cries wash over him. He doesn't know how long it is before he manages to suck in a breath and not choke it back out in a sob. But by the time he finally gets enough air to speak, his voice has gone hoarse.

“I _tried_ ,” he pleads, to Bull, to the gods, to the younger version of himself that whispers disappointment in his head. “I couldn't leave it behind.”

Bull's hands dig into his sides. His voice is low and rough in his ears like flint striking stone. “You can't carry it with you.”

But Lavellan closes his hands around the bottle, fingers strangling its neck, and tucks it back against his chest anyway.

* * *

Years later, when the tip of an ear isn't the only piece of him he's lost, Lavellan stops in the middle of a deserted dirt road and guides Bull into the forest.

It's the end of a long journey, even if Bull doesn't know it yet – Bull never questioned it when Lavellan asked if he'd take a break from leading the Chargers and come with him to Orlais for a few weeks. It's rare they get so much uninterrupted time together anymore, so they've made good use of it. And not many people travel this far into the Dales, so there's been few concerns about privacy.

Lavellan listens and laughs as Bull doesn't even pause in his story of the Chargers recent stint as bodyguards at the engagement party for the daughter of some nobleman. The ragtag group weren't the obvious choice for that sort of grandiose affair, but apparently some local had taken such issue with the wedding that they'd threatened to stop it by any means necessary. And what better way to respond to that message than by having a menacing Qunari keeping watch by the door?

Lavellan joins the Chargers on their adventures when he can, but he has absolutely no desire to ever get involved in that type of politics again, so he'd passed on this invitation. But he does enjoy the images Bull draws up of the group attempting to look natural in the ruffled uniforms they'd been given, and the stories of Dalish getting drunk while insisting she was just checking for poison.

He rests his hand on Bull's forearm as they come to a stop several feet from the edge of a broad river. The sun beats down on the back of his neck, under where his hair has been braided and tied up in a bun. Sparkling light reflects off the droplets of water that leap out of the river as they crash against the rocky banks.

Bull's voice fades away only once Lavellan slides his hand down into Bull's own. He sees the mossy rocks that he knows feel as soft as any wool he's ever come across, and takes in the peeling bark of the trees that looked so much wider in his memories. Bull tightens callused fingers around his hand.

“We – “ He starts, and stops again. He looks only into the water, and lets the sound draw out the words from his throat. “There's two rivers that come together just a bit upstream. So the animals tend to mate here in the spring. Clean water. Easy hunting.” He swallows. “Somehow we always ended up back here.”

Bull pauses. Lavellan expects him to look around at the place, but instead settles his eye only on Lavellan before deciding how to respond. “Hah. Sounds right. I can practically see you swinging off the trees here.”

Lavellan's lips twitch up at Bull's pinpointed guess. Just a minute ago, the smell of fresh leaves and crisp water had brought back long displaced memories, of hanging upside down from these branches and sunbathing in hammocks as seeds floated to the ground.

“When I was a kid, the Keeper always told me not to go too deep,” he whispers. “That the river would sweep me away.”

“But you did anyway, didn't you?” Bull's tone is light but just as soft as his own. Lavellan knows well that the river has a way of demanding quiet from everything around it. “I can hardly keep you from rushing into every lake we see. Even the swampy ones.”

“I hadn't figured out how to listen to people yet.”

The wind carries cool air to him, and he gulps a breath, and he knows.

He reaches into his coat, and it's more difficult now without his other hand to hold the fabric open, but he slowly pulls out the jar. Bull turns to face him fully, and with the glass held between them, Lavellan tries to think of something to say.

Years ago, he'd sat alone, body gone numb as he'd uncapped each one with shaking fingers. And as he'd dumped the liquid out, the vile alcohol that had kept them from returning home to the ground, he'd said a prayer for each one. It had felt like a ritual, except that no one had ever imagined the need for a ritual for something like this.

He doesn't pray anymore – it doesn't bring him any comfort since learning what his gods really were. But the thought doesn't change. He says the same thing he said for them, the words that he couldn't manage to speak for himself before.

_May the future be kinder to you than the past._

In the end, it's less ceremonious than he thought. He holds the bottle in place as Bull uncorks it, and then pours the liquid out over the grass. The ear slides out into his hand easily, and it's so much lighter than he thought it was.

Bull takes away the empty glass as Lavellan bends to gather up fallen leaves, and this time, his fingers don't shake. He takes one last look down at the small weight in his hand, before he folds the leaves up around it.

The two of them sit together, right where land meets water. Lavellan tilts his head up. He feels sun on his cheeks, a breeze in his hair, and the boundless warmth of Bull next to him. Before he can delay it any longer, he lets go of one last breath and lowers the pack of leaves into the brisk river.

He watches it drift away, before shutting his eyes and allowing himself a minute to breathe.

“Let's go,” he hears from above. When he opens his eyes, he sees Bull's hand stretching out from above, and he takes it as he pulls himself off the ground.

They walk back to the road, leaving behind flesh to decompose and water to wash it all away.

**Author's Note:**

> now with amazing, perfect, horrifying fanart: https://daintycapybara.tumblr.com/post/190851562520/a-really-dark-moment-from-a-beautidul-dai-fic


End file.
